


Just Like Flying

by PotterheadAvengerDemigod



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, I don't know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotterheadAvengerDemigod/pseuds/PotterheadAvengerDemigod
Summary: Steve Rogers has a complicated relationship with the concept of falling.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not actually sure how good this is... This has been sitting in my laptop folder for the longest time and I thought I might as well post it.  
> Beta-ed by covetsubjugation and some parts are written by her.  
> Most mistakes are probably mine. Oops.

It had always been a touch and go thing with him. Falling, he means. Some days he likes it, enjoys the thrill, heart racing, adrenaline rushing through his veins, blood roaring in his ears.

Other days, he hates it. Hates it with every bone in his body, hates the fragility of a human body, how a simple fall can shatter everything that is worth caring about. Sometimes he hears the word ‘falling’ and he bites his lip to keep from voicing the thoughts that flit through his brain: _Nothing is unbreakable._ Everything _has a breaking point, you just gotta have the right height._

His first fall is when he’s fifteen, he and Bucky on Coney Island, when they manage to scrape enough money for a ride on the Cyclone. It’s a good day, sunny and warm but not overly so, a soft breeze blowing off the sea.

He admits he’s a little afraid of the ride, afraid of the creaky wooden coaster and how it aches and groans as it climbs to its peak. He looks at his less-than-stellar health, thinks about the value of his life versus the value of the ticket he had paid for, but Bucky’s there, and Bucky would never let anything bad happen to him. Besides, he’s always wanted to take the Cyclone - he was promised the experience of a lifetime, he expects his money’s worth.

So they get on the ride, Bucky practically trembling with excitement and Steve grinning nervously. The pull and tug of gravity as they race up and down, and the wind in his face is exhilarating, blood roars through his veins and he’s never felt so _alive_.

As it turns out, his weak health doesn’t affect his ability to enjoy the ride, even if he does throw up a little after it. But he simply rinses out his mouth, fends off Bucky’s concerns, and moves on.

It’s the last good day Steve has.

The next week, his mum gets a job at the tuberculosis hospital, and she’s happy. The job is steady and pays reasonably; They can afford to make ends meet, even go out once in a while. But she doesn’t even make it past a month, contracting the same disease that she fought so hard to help others with.

Mrs. Barnes passes soon after, he and Bucky are sent to the orphanage not long after. They are orphans, sure, but at least they have each other.

They struggle through a few years, but they’re happy. They’re content with their simple life, and sure Steve misses his mum, but he has Bucky with him and that’s enough. That’s good enough.

The war comes in a flash of newspapers and black ink, and Buck enlists. Steve follows, or at least tries to. He is rejected five times.

On attempt number six, he meets Erskine.

"Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? Is it New Haven, or Paramus? Five different exams in five different cities."

Heart in his throat. Adrenaline in his veins. "That may not be the right file."

"No, it's not the exams I'm interested in, it's the five tries. You still haven't answered my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"

"Is this a test?"

"Yes."

*

_He is very very cold. They have wrapped him up in a blanket, a shroud of bright orange._

_"Shock," they said. "You're in shock."  They shine lights into his eyes, ask him who's the president, all worthless, meaningless words._

_He feels cold down to his bones, or what's left of it. He watches the light dance off the metal of his arm, sees red and blue flash.  He tries to remember what it was like before when he was fully human, before he was turned into a machine._

_"I killed him," he says. "Or, I tried to." He looks up, the paramedics are gone. He answered their questions a few minutes too late._

_A hand slips into his. Strong, sturdy. Everything he needs, everything he isn’t. He turns his head and looks into blue eyes. They are clear, as steadfast as the promise he sees in them._

_"You're fine,"  the man says. "Everything's okay."_

_He trusts those blue eyes._

*

They tell him they need the little guy. This is a lie. They need a willing guinea pig.

When he steps out of the machine, he sways. His centre of gravity is off, his sense of direction is off, he’s dazed and nauseous and the world is spinning before his eyes. He aches, a symphony of pain and soreness, muscles, bones, everything. All he wants to do is curl into a ball and go to sleep.

But when Peggy asks how he feels, all he says is, “Taller.” He can rest later.

He doesn’t even have time to rest before the world changes once more. This time, something explodes. Erskine is shot, right in the heart, in the heart of the operation theatre, and Steve struggles to avoid vomiting over the brilliant man, and he is holding him and watching him die in his arms while Peggy gives chase.

Peggy, wonderful woman that she is, has already killed the getaway driver by the time he shows up, but their target escapes, dives into a different car and tries to flee. She gets in the way of the car, steps right into the middle of the road, into the direct line of sight of a car driven by a man who can kill, will kill, and has killed.

He dives for her, and gets her just as the yellow cab screeches past.

“I had him!”

He pushes to his feet, scrambling up and already running after the automobile, bare feet slapping against hot gravel. “Sorry!”

He turns up a parallel street, keeping pace with the cab and when he’s near enough, darts back into the previous street only to careen straight into a bridal store.

Needless to say, he’s not exactly used to his new body yet. The nausea’s passed, the exhaustion burned away by adrenaline, but he still can’t find his centre of gravity, and it shows. He scrambles back up, vaults a fence, uses the roof of a nearby car as a jumping board, and lands bodily on the roof of the cab. The wind in his newly repaired lungs is knocked right out of him. It doesn’t help that the cab immediately starts swerving in an effort to throw him off.

He holds on, knuckles bone white and teeth gritted.

The last thing he needs now is a fall.

Clearly, the shooter doesn’t share this plan of his as a bullet tears through the metal roof at him, sends him swinging by both arms off the side of the cab, and fires at him again.

The cab crashes, flipping head over heels and he flies off the vehicle, in a clean arc that has his stomach twisting and revolting as his body mimics the movements of the taxicab.

Good job, he thinks wryly to himself as he somersaults in the air, you have failed step one of your plan.

He lands harshly on the tarred ground, and he can practically feel the abrasions and bruises that are going to appear in the next few seconds.

He ignores them all, but his fall has wasted time that could not be wasted, and now another man’s son is in danger, as the target presses the cool metal of a gun into the kid’s temple.

Steve wants to scream at the bystanders, wants to scream at them to run, leave, get as far away from here as possible, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth are harsh breaths and the desire to bend over double and dry heave; Turns out even exhaustion, injury and falling off the roof of a vehicle can do harm to his new and improved body.

He darts forward, broken glass shredding the skin off his feet, but he pushes that aside too. Instead, he just keeps going after the shooter, because that man is not killing another innocent soul. Not on his watch.

He runs into the small port that the man has ducked into, still holding the boy, and the gun shifts in the killer’s grip. A finger twitching on a trigger.

A child. A poor, innocent child who had done nothing wrong but be at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Wait, don’t!” Steve finds himself yelling before he can even process what he’s doing, arms out in front of his body, palms open in surrender. “Don’t!”

The killer moves the gun from the boy’s head, and Steve has barely a moment of relief before the muzzle is aimed at him and the trigger is being pulled.

Click.

Out of bullets.

The man curses, a cry of pure frustration, and manhandles the boy off to the side and tosses him over the edge into the water below.

Steve curses inwardly and runs to the water’s edge, only to see the boy below him, happily treading water. “Go get him, I can swim!”

Steve grins and pivots on his heel, continuing his chase only to see the man driving off in a sleek, futuristic submarine. The thought has barely crossed his mind before he’s plunging straight into the water in a perfect swan dive, strong strokes pulling him through the water at inhuman speed even though the only swim practice he'd gotten before this was theoretical.

He catches up to the sub, grabbing onto the communications antenna and pulling himself level with the vehicle before punching in the window; water floods into the compartment. He rips open the roof of the sub and grabs the man by his lapels, flinging him up and out of the water to land solidly on the ground. He allows himself to feel vindication at the sight of the man flying through the air.

Steve climbs up after the shooter, leaping back to avoid a punch to the midsection before kicking him across the face, sending the vial of blue solution that is the Super Soldier Serum smashing to the ground. He lugs the man up by his collar, watching his face transform from anger into a blank mask. “Who the hell are you?”

“The first of many,” he snarls. “Cut off one head. Two more shall take its place. Hail HYDRA.”

The man’s jaw works, and there’s an ominous crunch. Foam gathers at the corners of his mouth and spills from his lips, and he collapses, dead at Steve’s feet.

The corpse draws his eyes down, and for the first time since he emerged from his metal cocoon, Steve looks down at his body - his _new_ body.

He sees the muscles rippling in his arms, the tendons and sinew straining against flesh and the skin bulging when he clenches his fists, the cephalic and basilic veins in his upper arm well defined and easily visible.

It’s like he’s looking at someone else’s arm.

This isn’t him.

*

_When he had emerged from his metal house today, they had promised him this wouldn’t happen. “It would work,” said the black cat, stretching his arms above his head, “It will hold.”_

_And yet, here he sits._

_He comes back to himself shaking, throat dry and wrecked, and the first thing he smells is smoke. Smoke and ash and fire. He hears far off screaming, hears a whimper somewhere near him. His left arm doesn’t really exist, but it aches and trembles._

_It failed. He was still a monster._

_When the man had appeared in front of him, his finger had twitched on the trigger; The urge to empty the whole clip into the man strengthened as the Russian words leave his mouth._

“Longing, Rusted, Seventeen, Daybreak, Furnace, Nine, Benign, Homecoming, One, Freight Car.”

_But nothing happened. He had been filled with elation and gratitude. The cat was right, whatever they had done was working, he was holding! His grip on his gun shifted and he lifts it up, aims it at his once-captor._

_The man’s eyes narrowed, but not in fear as he would have wanted. They narrowed and he watched as the look in the man’s face changed from expectance to annoyance._

“Affection, Ride, Uniform-”

_And his mind slipped away._

_Now, he sits in the ruin of the building, shaking as his mind returns to him, as he comes down into himself. It didn’t work. A second set of activation words, they had not planned for this. How many were there? Is there any way to get past it? They had to try again, but how much time and resources must they waste to try and fix a man so damaged? The whimper comes again, he realises it comes from him._

_Something shifts behind him and he whirls around. The silhouette of a man rises above him, the flames from the fire illuminate the blue of his suit, the line of his jaw, the glint of his shield._

_“Bucky,” the man says and he closes his eyes._

*

When he gets back to base, Senator Brandt asks him if he’s willing to fight on the “most important battlefield of the war”, and that’s all he wants, really.

But that’s before they stuff him into a red, white and blue bodysuit and shove him onstage.

His script is taped to the inside of the shield, and he’s reading off the thing even as the crowds cheer.

Country to country, show after show, the embarrassment fades, but the feeling that he’s not doing enough stays, and the lines stick in his head, false and perky and not giving him a single moment’s reprieve. _Series E defense bonds. Each one you buy is a bullet in your best guy’s gun. That’s where you come in. Every bond you buy will help protect someone you love._

Buffalo.

Milwaukee.

Philadelphia.

Chicago.

 _New York._ His hometown.

False smiles and chipper voices and loud music that gets stuck in his head for days on end, countless days of complete, utter ridiculity. He’s up there on stage, with people cheering and screaming for him, when all he’s doing is talking and prancing in stars and stripes. When there are men out there on the frontlines, fighting for their country, fighting for their lives.

When _Bucky’s_ out there fighting.

_“And these are your only two options? A lab rat or a dancing monkey?”_

Agent Carter’s voice resonates in his head as he stares down at his water-damaged sketchbook. A disastrous show today, a decision made by some idiot who thought it would be good for the soldiers’ morale to put him, an actor, a fake, a man pretending to know what they go through, on stage and prancing. Nevermind that these were actual _soldiers_ , people who’ve seen so much blood, so much violence, who barely came back with their lives.

He already feels sick at himself, and the feeling grows when Peggy tells him the soldiers were the remnants of the one-oh-seven, the remnants of a troop which included Sergeant James B. Barnes, included _Bucky._

Steve blanches, panic and fear burning out humiliation and sending him springing to his feet in horror. He braves the rain, ignoring how each sheet of falling water drenches him; His hair is plastered to his head and mud splashing up on his boots as he sloshes his way through puddles, feet flying at speeds he’d never known he could reach.

“Colonel Phillips!” He yells the moment he barges into the tent.

“Well, if it isn’t the Star-Spangled Man with a Plan. What is your plan today?” Philips’s tone is condescending and degradatory, but Steve shoulders past that, completely ignoring it.

“I need the casualty list from Bolzano.”

“You don’t get to give me orders, son.”

“I just need one name. Sergeant James Barnes, the hundred and seventh.”

The Colonel looks past him, stabbing his pen at Peggy, eyes narrowed. “You and I are going to have a conversation later that you won’t enjoy.”

Steve ignores the bytalk, completely focused on that one scrap of information that he needs. “Please tell me he’s alive, Sir. B-A-R-”

“I can spell,” Philips cuts him off, looking down at his papers before getting up. “I’ve signed more of these condolence letters today than I’d care to count, but the name does sound familiar. I’m sorry.”

Steve looks down at his feet.

*

_He sits down on the medical table, cool plastic pressing into his thighs. His one normal hand grips the table, his other is bound. He feels vaguely off-balance._

_The cryo chamber looms ahead of him, but he doesn’t feel fear as he did while he was working for the Russians. Instead he feels hollow, almost empty. Is this what peace looks like?_

_The nurse next to him leaves, and someone else approaches. Steve. Steve who asks for the hundredth time if he is sure, who wears a stoic mask to mask his uncertainty but forgets that Bucky_ knows _him and knows his tells._

_“I can’t trust my own mind,” he says and he huffs out a breath of laughter. He’s not really laughing, just feigning it. “So until they figure out how to get the stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing.” His throat closes; He pretends that he is just taking a dramatic pause._

_Steve’s blue eyes look back at him._

_“For everybody.”_

_He gets into the chamber, heaves a sigh of relief as he realises the door is made of clear glass and not heavy metal and rust. His eyes finds the gigantic black panther statue outside, focuses on its foggy shape as his chest rises and falls. He can feel Steve staring at him, gives himself a moment to look back at the man._

_Cold fills the chamber. He lets his eyes slide shut and-_

_He’s gone._

*

Peggy says he is meant for more than this.

Peggy says she can do more than that.

She really can do more.

She gets Howard Stark, of all people, to fly him into enemy territory. Not only that, she comes along for the ride, despite the immense trouble that both she and Howard will be in when they get back to camp.

"The HYDRA camp is in Krossberg. It's between these two mountain ranges. It's a factory of some kind."

“We should be able to drop you ‘round the doorstep,” Howard hollers from the pilot’s seat.

Steve can feel the gratitude shining in his eyes, the lengths these two would go to just to help him save a man they don't know, all on his word. "Just get me as close as you can. You know you two are going to be in a lot of trouble when you land."

Steve can feel the guilt welling in his chest, and he hopes it doesn't show in his eyes. He bites down on the _sorry_ that goes unspoken but not unheard.

"And you won't?"

Steve lets the corner of his mouth lift slightly. "Where I'm going, if anyone yells at me, I can just shoot them."

“And they will undoubtedly shoot back,” Peggy deadpans.

Steve hits the shield with the back of his hand, the metallic clang reverberates through the aircraft. “Well then, let’s hope this is good for something.”

“Agent Carter,” Howard calls from the cockpit, causing both Peggy’s and Steve’s head to swivel in his direction. “If you’re not in too much of a hurry I thought we could stop off in Lucerne for a late-night fondue.”

The flirtation in his voice is evident.

Peggy’s expression transforms from severe to exasperated in a fraction of a second, and she all but rolls her eyes.

“Stark is the best civilian pilot I’ve ever seen,” she says instead, blatantly ignoring the man. “He’s mad enough to brave this airspace. We’re lucky to have him.”

Steve nods, a tad disappointed. “So, you two… Do you…”

Peggy’s eyes turn to the front of the plane for a moment, before turning back to Steve, arching an eyebrow in query.

Steve dips his chin, gesturing haplessly. “Fondue?”

Peggy looks down, closing her eyes and sucking in a deep breath.

“This is your transponder,” she diverts, handing him a rectangular gadget that looks almost definitely non-standard issue. “Activate it when you’re ready, and the signal will lead us straight to you.”

Steve takes it, flipping it over in his palm for inspection. “You sure this thing works?” He calls to Howard.

Howard’s only reply is, “Been tested more than you, pal.”

That’s a good enough answer, Steve supposes, although compared to him, practically everything’s been tested more.

There’s a loud crash before the entire aircraft rocks violently and the airspace outside lights up in brilliant flashes of orange-white.

Enemy fire.

Steve stands, slinging his shield on his arm and making for the exit.

“Get back here!” Peggy yells, making after him. “We’re taking you all the way there!”

“I’m gonna jump ship,” Steve yells back, over the sound of fire. “Turn this thing around and get the hell out of here!”

“You can’t give me orders!”

“The hell I can’t; I’m a Captain!” Steve shoots back, grinning.

And he falls.

When he lands, he lands right in the midst of the barren trees that he supposes used to be a forest, beside the road that leads into the HYDRA compound. Trucks and other vehicles rumble pass, their tyres heavy and loud and on the bumpy dirt road.

Steve breaks cover, dashing out behind a truck and vaulting into the back of the vehicle unnoticed, rolling behind the tarp that covers the back.

There are masked HYDRA personnel in the back, and even through the masks, he can practically feel their surprise. “Fellas.”

He stops them before they manage to reach for their gun, knocks them out with a strong uppercut before tossing them bodily out of the truck. And there he waits, huddling in the darkness of the back of the truck, keeping his breathing in check so he doesn’t give himself away.

Before long, black-clad fingers reach under the tarp, and he holds his shield at the ready to block any shots. It lifts, and instead of being greeted by HYDRA soldiers, the HYDRA agent is greeted with a faceful of stars and stripes. The shield smashes the guy across the forehead and sending him flying back, unconscious before he hits the ground.

Steve jumps out of the truck, landing soundlessly and making his careful way across the grounds, creeping past tanks, sneaking across stretches of open ground, and he prays he won’t be seen and wishes to God that his shield was anything but the red, white and blue of the American flag, that practically screams _‘I’m not authorised personnel! Come and arrest me -or better yet, shoot me!’_

He picks his way through the base, and, by some miracle, isn’t spotted at all, and manages to make it to the cells that HYDRA has majority of the one-oh-seven imprisoned in, knocking out the guard and sending him sprawling across the top of the metal-barred cells, causing the soldiers, who are sitting, slumped, at the bottom of the cage to jerk their heads up in consternation.

When Steve appears above the downed man, the red, white and blue spelling out obviously he is not a HYDRA goon, the soldiers immediately clamber to their feet, hope kindling in their eyes.

Gabe Jones is the first to speak up. “Who are you supposed to be?”

Steve hesitates for a moment, shield still clutched in hand. “I’m… Captain America.”

He bows his head and unlocks the door, ignoring the way Falsworth’s incredulous “I beg your pardon?” makes his cheeks flush.

Four hundred over captives are released from their different cells, and he thanks god that they have the presence of mind to keep cheering and whooping low.

“What, we taking everybody?” Jim Morita questions, holding up a hand as if to stave off expected remarks. “I’m from Fresno, ace.”

Steve turns, leading the troop, Falsworth beside him. “I’m looking for a Sergeant James Barnes.” His breath catches in his throat; It reminds him of asthma and he unconsciously pats his thigh where he would usually keep his inhaler.

“There’s an isolation ward in the factory,” Falsworth replies. “No one’s ever come back from it.”

 _Like hell._ Steve thinks. _If anyone’s coming back from there, it’s Buck._

“Alright,” Steve orders. “The treeline is northwest, it’s eighty yards past the gate. Get out fast, give ‘em hell. I’ll meet you guys in the clearing with anyone else I find.”

He makes to leave, turning and just about to run off to find Bucky, when Gabe Jones steps forward. “Wait. You know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” Steve bluffs, tone even. “I’ve knocked Adolf Hitler out over two hundred times.”

*

 _He just wants to be_ left alone _. But apparently that is too much to ask._

_He tries to live quietly in Romania, keeps his head down, makes no friends. He writes down what flashes of memories he is awarded by his fragile mind, keeps multiple notebooks around him so he can write them down as fast as possible._

_(He learned this when he had a flashback about a childhood memory: someone coughing, cold toes under his thighs, but he didn’t have anything to write it down on and the memory leaves with the barest trace of its skeleton.)_

_But he keeps his gun in his backpack._

_Any day now._

_And it comes true. He gets caught and they lug him back to the US, guns ablazing. Rogers, no,_ Steve _, tries to warn him, tries to make the ride back easier, but he’s in hot water too and he can’t even come to visit. He doesn’t struggle, lets them pull him wherever they want. He doesn’t deserve nice things, he isn’t a nice person. They lock him up, barricade him away, and they bring in a psychiatrist._

_The alarm bells don’t start ringing until it is too late._

_He wishes he can say he doesn’t remember, but he does. He remembers everything that happens when he is under, knows he hurt someone, knows someone’s blood is on his hands. When he surfaces, he comes back shaking and aching, sprawled on the floor. He looks down at the floor beneath his hands, half-wishes the sound he just heard was the click of a gun to take him out, rather than the sound of Steve’s footsteps._

_(The sound of Steve’s footsteps was the first memory to come back to him. He doesn’t think it ever really left. He could pick it out amongst hundreds, thousands of sounds, he has it ingrained in him.)_

Kill me _, he wants to say. But instead he allows Steve to help, or rather he agrees to help Steve, brings him to the one place he swore he would never return to. The cold sinks into his bones, or whatever is left of them, and he doesn’t even flinch. He’s here to watch Steve’s six. That is something he can do._

_But then Stark appears, silver tongue and raised palms; And he doesn’t trust him, panic rising up the back of his throat, as he recognises the name, but Steve’s eyes say it’s okay so he lets it slide._

_A memory comes back to him, split seconds before Zemo reveals his trump card._

_When Steve says it’s okay, it is not okay._

_All hell breaks loose, and it’s metal against metal, weapon against weapon. Even up against two people, Stark holds his own. Every clang of metal gives off a spark, and each spark illuminates the hurt and anger in Stark’s eyes._

_He isn’t as good as he was, and a slip up means precious seconds lost, and precious seconds lost means blinding pain and bile in his mouth as his metal arm is dismembered. He cries out and Steve whirls around, teeth bared and fists raised._

_He can’t remember much past the pain but when he finally raises his eyes, Steve’s got his arm around him and they’re limping away. The shield is tossed on the ground at Stark’s final bark, the clang reverberating around the stone walls._

_It sounds like a rejection. It sounds like anger. It sounds like an apology._

*

Steve is back in the aircraft hangar slash weapons storage when the alarms start blaring.

He’s immediately noticed by the soldiers and guards, the alarm making them jittery and on high alert. It devolves into an all-out battle way too quickly, and Steve discovers that the shield makes for a pretty good blunt trauma weapon, given its weight. He kicks and punches, shield knocking personnel out with every sweep of his arm. Slowly but surely, he makes his way to the factory, closer and closer to his target.

Closer and closer to Bucky.

None of these two-bit HYDRA goons are going to stop him from reaching his best friend, his brother-in-arms, his brother in all but blood.

Sure, their weapons are strong, and pack quite the punch, and pretty much don’t belong anywhere near this century, but none of that is going to stop him.

God knows it’d probably take nothing less that Buck himself to stop Steve now.

He’s on one of the walkways above the hangar now, and he kicks a guard right in the middle of the chest, sending him over the railing to the floor below just as the alarms start to blare at even higher decibels than before.

God dammit _._

He pulls his Colt 45 from its holster, full out running now, turning down a deserted corridor in the factory building, only to find it’s not so deserted after all. A bespectacled man in a fedora and trench coat, with a bulging briefcase under his arm and a sheaf of papers in his hand rounds the corner and catches his eye. His heart is already thumping for a fight but the man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scurries away.

Steve contemplates giving chase, but then he notices the room the guy had come from.

_Bucky._

He rushes into the room, barely sparing a glance at his surroundings, only stopping long enough to notice the map on the wall before he sees the exam table in the middle of the lab. Bucky is strapped down to it, chest rising and falling with each even breath, and God, even if Buck’s not moving, at least he’s alive.

Bucky’s alive, and he’s breathing, and _Steve’s not too late_.

He leans down over Bucky, the other man staring blankly up at him, not processing anything, no recognition on his features, nothing. No semblance of life. “Bucky.”

 _Come on, Buck, it’s me, it’s Steve, come on! Wake up, I’m here to rescue you, it’s safe now!_ He screams inwardly.

He reaches for the clasps holding Bucky down, breaking them with but a slight twist of his wrist, even as Bucky simply stares into space.

When Buck’s free, Steve shakes him, trying to knock some sense back into him, and Bucky finally responds, turning his head towards him and blinking. “It’s me, it’s Steve.”

Bucky blinks a couple more times, before he breaks out in that familiar toothy grin that Steve misses more than he’ll ever admit. “Steve... Steve.”

Steve grins in relief at the recognition. He’d been so afraid that HYDRA had messed with his mind, warping the man until he was no longer Bucky. But that’s not happening, it didn’t happen, and Bucky’s here, and he’s safe, and Steve was going to get him out of here if it’s the last thing he does. “Come on.”

He hauls Buck to his feet, giving him the once-over and hoping against hope that Bucky didn’t have any internal injuries.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve half-whispers, barely keeping his voice from breaking.

“I thought you were smaller,” Bucky replies in a daze.

Steve ducks his head, hiding a grin before sobering, casting a quick look around the room to make sure he didn’t miss anything important.

His gaze lands on the map pinned to the wall, and _that_ looks important. He spares as much time as he deems possible to memorise it, before draping Bucky’s arm around his shoulder and dragging his out of the room. “Come on.”

“What happened to you?” Bucky pants.

“I joined the army.”

When Bucky finally musters the strength to walk unaided, they’re almost out of the building.

“Did it hurt?” Buck breathes, mind still caught up on the serum, which Steve had explained the basics of.

“A little,” he answers tersely, too busy mapping out the building in his mind to piece together a longer answer, despite how much he wants to just sit down and have a nice, long conversation with Bucky.

“Permanent?”

“So far,” Steve replies, slowing his strides so that Bucky, injured and limping, can catch up.

He remembers the days when he’d been the one in Bucky’s place, staggering and stumbling along behind his dark-haired best friend, who’d walk ahead, long strides covering more than twice the distance Steve’s graceless, hobbling gait did. Now it was the reverse, and he can’t find it in himself to begrudge Bucky for those years of trying to help him walk, not when he himself was barely restraining from grabbing Bucky in a fireman’s carry and running out of the place.

They’re back on the walkways when the entire place starts going up in flames, explosions rocking the very foundation of the building, and Steve looks over the railing only to fall back as a tongue of flame comes jetting in his direction. He and Bucky turn, dashing along the metal boardwalk that’s heating up rapidly under their feet. They take the stairs two at a time, running up to a higher level, and Steve pulls up short when a heavily accented voice calls, “Captain America! How _exciting_.”

Steve turns, and there, on the other side of the boardwalk, stands a man in a black leather trench coat, the red HYDRA logo emblazoned on the sleeves. This must be Johann Schmidt.

“I am a big fan of your films,” Schmidt mocks, spreading his hands and beginning to make his way up the walkway separating them. The scientist that Steve’d seen earlier exiting the lab that Bucky’d been in is beside him, staring at Steve like he was looking at a ghost.

“So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all,” Schmidt jeers. “Not exactly an improvement, but, still. Impressive.”

How dare he. How dare he even mention Dr. Erskine after what he’d done.

Steve lifts his shield, his clenched fist coming up behind it and socking the guy across the jaw, sending him reeling backwards momentarily. “You’ve got no idea.”

Schmidt straightens, the skin under his right eye sagging and red, still holding his cheek.

“Haven’t I?” Schmidt growls, throwing his own punch.

Steve jerks the shield in front of him, and the shield holds, thankfully, but it also dents under Schmidt’s fist. _How-_

Steve feels his jaw drop in horror, and he immediately reaches for his holster, pulling the Colt out, but Schmidt backhands him, sending him toppling back onto the walkway. The gun slithers away, falling off the edge into the fiery depths below. Schmidt advances, grinning maniacally, and Steve grabs onto the railings on either side of him, hauling himself up and planting his booted feet in the man’s chest, sending him flying backwards to sprawl in the same position that Steve himself had been in.

The scientist -Steve later learns that he’s Arnim Zola- grabs a lever on their side of the walkway, and with the grind of machinery, the path splits down the middle and begins retracting, pulling Schmidt and Steve away from the other.

“No matter what lies Erskine told you, you see, I was his greatest success!” He grabs at his throat, gloved fingers catching on something and he pulls.

Before their eyes, a layer of flesh-coloured _something_ is stripped off, coming apart in his grip, peeling upwards and revealing bright, eye searing scarlet. The entire mask comes off in Schmidt’s hand, and beneath is his _real_ face. An angular, garish visage, barely anything more than the thinnest layer of skin on bone, discoloured and blood red.

From beside him, Bucky winces. “You don’t have one of those, do you?”

“You are deluded, Captain,” the HYDRA leader announces over the ever-widening gap. “You pretend to be a simple soldier, but in reality you are just afraid to admit that we have left humanity behind!”

He tosses his mask over the edge, the scrap of latex fluttering as it falls to a fiery end.

“Unlike you,” the Skull sneers. “I embrace it proudly, without fear!”

Zola and Schmidt turn, heading for the elevator behind them.

Steve feels his own expression pull into something resembling a snarl. “Then how come you’re running?”

The Red Skull simply reaches for a button at the side of the doors, pressing it and closing them.

Steve looks up, seeing the doors on the other side, one level up, just as an explosion rocks the metal boardwalk they’re on, and the two are thrown backwards.

“Come on, let’s go!” He yells to Buck, and the two scramble to their feet on the still shaking walkway and dash up the stairs.

They make it to the upper deck, but they both falter on the walkway, looking at the unstable, shaky metal structure that can barely pass for support, much less a bridge.

“Let’s go,” Steve says, helping Bucky as he clambers over the railing onto the shaking metal support. “One at a time.”

Bucky stands, cautiously letting go of the railing, and begins to make his way across. His arms are spread for balance, and the metal vibrates beneath his weight. There’s a spectacular explosion from beneath them, and the metal groans, jerking downwards before catching on the jutting end of the support and stabilising.

Buck’s steps falter as he loses his footing, and his entire body shakes.

_No, no, no. God, no, please don’t let Bucky fall, please, oh God. Bucky can’t fall, not when he’s this close to escaping, not when he’s this close to making it out of this alive._

Then Bucky regains his footing and continues walking, lifting his foot to step over the obstruction in the middle of the structure, and that’s when another explosion sounds. The violent detonation shakes the metal again, and Bucky loses his footing once again.

_No, no, no. Bucky’s gonna make it out alive, he can, he must._

The metal creaks again, drops, and this time, it doesn’t catch on anything. No, it breaks clean off, falling into the fire below, but Bucky’s on the other side, right in front of the doors. He jumped, he ran the last few metres and jumped, and he’s alive! He made it, and he’s alive, he’s free to leave the building, to escape and get back to base.

Bucky pulls himself over the railing, grabbing onto it with both hands and leaning over, staring at Steve. “Gotta be a rope or something!” He yells over.

“Just go, get outta here!” Steve yells back, because if he’s not going to survive this, at least Bucky will, and at least he himself will go out in battle, instead of boredom and humiliation on a stage.

“No, not without you!” Bucky screams, still gripping the railing, expression desperate and bordering on maniacal, and, damn it, Bucky’s really not gonna leave without him, is he?

Only one way, then.

He looks down, grabs ahold of the broken railing, split in two by the falling support, and pushes it outwards with his enhanced strength, the metal cylinder bending under his hands, forming a clean gap.

He backs up, braces himself and catches Bucky’s eye as Bucky realises what he’s about to do. Then he runs, feet eating up the distance, and before he knows it, before he can lose his nerve, he’s at the edge, and he jumps.

His legs and arms flail uselessly through the air, and heat engulfs him as the flames from below lick ever closer.

And, God, this really is the epitome of falling, he’s not expecting to make it, surely even he’s not able to clear so wide a gap. He’s falling, he’s falling, and there’s no way to stop himself, nothing to hold onto, no way forward and no way backward. Only one way down.

His stomach revolts, bile churning and burning his throat, even as his limbs continue flailing, and his eyes water, not just from the smoke of the fires below, but from fear and the feeling that _no, he’s not going to make it out alive_.

Bucky’s screaming his name, and Steve’s mind is screaming, screaming in terror and horror and just wishing that he’d never jumped.

But God, this way, at least Bucky’d leave if he doesn’t make it.

He would, wouldn’t he? Bucky’d know that Steve was dead, know that there’s no chance of him being alive, and he’d leave.

Right?

But then Steve makes it, lands painfully on his abdomen with blunt fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick metal of the walkway, and Bucky grabs hold of his arms, pulling with all his strength, and together, they manage to get Steve on the metal boardwalk, and they lay there, catching their breath before another explosion sounds and they jump to their feet, making their way to the doors and pushing them open to end up on the roof.

They manage to climb down the side of the building, finding footholds and handholds in the rough façade, gripping till their knuckles are snow white and hanging on for dear life when the walls shake under the stress of the explosions inside.

They barely make it off the building and out of the blast range before the entire structure collapses inwards, red-hot tongues of flame belching out like a star gone supernova, bright and brilliant, searing itself into their eyelids and incandescent in its fiery, blazing glory.

He and Buck make it to the rendezvous point, trekking the last eighty yards to the treeline and meeting the others in the clearing, where the first thing Steve’s eyes are drawn to is the imposing, HYDRA-make tank mounted with a glowing blue cannon in the middle of the clearing, soldiers clambering over it, Dugan, Falsworth and Jones leaning against it, their expressions reminiscent of proud fathers.

He grins at the four hundred over men, all alive, few injured, and surveys the area. He goes around, pats them on the backs, congratulates them on a job well done and tells them to get some sleep.

He himself goes on watch, sits at the edge of their makeshift camp while his soldiers rest, puts himself on guard duty for the entire night. Bucky joins him at one point in time, sits up with him and gazes at the stars, and for a moment, it’s just like old times, when they’d sit out in grass fields and just lay back and watch the stars, nothing but grass, air and the two of them for miles and miles.

Bucky falls asleep like that, head pillowed on Steve’s shoulder, and Steve lets him be, even though his arm’s probably going to be numb come morning.

But it’s enough that he’s here, with Bucky, the two of them, brothers, together once again.

He lets the men rest for one night in that clearing before they start their trek back to base. The injured men are allowed to ride in the tank, and once in a while, the men who are exhausted, either from minor, healing injuries or simply walking long distances, climb on the tank and rest for a while.

Come nightfall, they stop and make camp, and, usually, Steve stands guard, because with the serum, he barely needs sleep anyway.

They always break camp come morning, and begin their trek the moment dawn breaks.

On the last day of their trek, Steve can see the exhaustion in his men, in their eyes and in their posture, and more and more of the men are jostling for a place on the tank.

He can see the exhaustion in Bucky as well.

He fingers the broken transponder in his pocket, and wishes to God that it hadn’t been near-destroyed. He wishes that he didn’t have to inflict such suffering on men who’d already gone through so much suffering, who were weary and wounded and just needed to rest.

So he lets them rest.

They’re almost to base anyway, what’s one more break?

The next afternoon, Steve’s enhanced hearing picks up the hustle of base and the noise of soldiers walking and talking, and his entire body perks up.

“We’re almost there!” He yells to his troops, and he can hear the ragged cheer that goes up.

He leads the men up the dirt road that opens up into camp, and when they’re within sight of it, yet another cheer goes up from his men, and he can’t stop the smile that breaks out on his features.

Soldiers from base start filing out to see what the commotion is, and there’s yelling and congratulations and applause, the men clapping and screaming for their friends, the men that they’d assumed missing, lost, _gone._

And now they’re back, safe and sound.

Steve sees Colonel Philips and Peggy, standing off to the side, the Colonel staring disbelievingly, Peggy smiling proudly, dark eyes gleaming.

He pats Bucky on the back even as the soldiers congregate around them, more running out of tents and joining the crowd, hugging their friends, and if Steve sees a few teary eyes, well, he’s not saying anything.

He makes his way to the Colonel, snapping off a quick salute before standing at attention.

“Some of these men need medical attention,” he says, while he tries to muster up the courage to say the next sentence he needs to say.

“I’d like to surrender myself for disciplinary action.”

But, God, he doesn’t, even if it’s the right thing to do, he doesn’t want to run the risk of being kicked out of the army just when there’s a chance that he could finally be part of a regiment, could be on the frontlines fighting for his country.

But it’s the right thing to do, and, besides, he’d have left camp and snuck off to free the soldiers all over again if he’d had to, because what’s one man to a few hundred, and what’s Steve without Bucky?

No, he’d much rather be on probation or kicked out than have Buck die.

Then Philips surprises him, meets his gaze straight on before turning away, gazing out over the troops. “That won’t be necessary.”

The Colonel turns back to him, eye to eye. Steve nods, once, compliantly. barely keeping the grin from breaking out on his face. “Yes, sir.”

He turns to Peggy, who’s standing right behind him, and goes, “Faith, huh?” before walking off. Steve barely has time to wonder what that means when Peggy walks up to him, lifts her chin and stares him straight in the eye. “You’re late.”

Steve looks down, grabs the transponder out of his pocket and holds it up, chunks of it singed away and the antenna twisted and mutilated. “Couldn’t call my ride.”

He doesn’t bother hiding his grin this time.

A smile stretches across Peggy’s red-painted lips, and it’s something that he’d prepared himself to never see again, that smile like the rising sun, glorious and brilliant and so beautiful it transcends words.

Behind him, Bucky voices carries over. “Hey! Let’s hear it for Captain America!”

The entire throng of soldiers burst into cheers and applause, and Steve barely manages to fight down the blush, feeling the heat creeping up his neck as Peggy’s smile widens ever so much.

He hides the emotion by looking up, gazing out at the men who are still hollering, exultations and hurrahs being flung far and wide. He looks back down at Peggy again, even as men clamour to to reach him, to pat his shoulder or shake his hand, and as Peggy’s smile continues widening in increments, he feels his own mirroring hers, and with Bucky at his side and Peggy smiling at him like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, Steve finally feels like he’s home.

*

_The Asset dreams._

_He -it- dreams of bullets and pain, of metal tracks and screams._

_In his dreams, he has a name. Bucky, he thinks._

_There are always voices, some soft, some loud, some crying out in pain._

_But he always dreams of a boy with blond hair._

_Blond hair like spun gold, and blue eyes like -like the sky, which the Asset cannot remember._

_He sees those eyes laughing, smiling, gleaming up at him in mirth. But he also sees them in pain, hurting, tearing up._

_When the masters wake him, he is always cold._

_They give him his mission parameters, and he always meets them without fail._

_His eyes are dead, dull, lightless._

_They do not remember. For the Asset doesn’t remember his dreams. He never does._

_*_

It’s only a while later that Steve’s walking through a tavern, bustling and crowded, an off day for the recovering soldiers of the 107th, and those others involved.

Bucky’s beside him, as he always has been, Bucky, his best friend, his brother.

But everything’s different now. Bucky’s the smaller one, the weaker one, the one being protected now.

And Steve is the bigger one, the stronger one, the one doing the protecting.

Everything’s so _different_ that Steve can feel his world spinning, can feel the vertigo.

They’re joking around, poking fun at each other, just like the old days, when Steve was small, weak, ill. When Bucky was the strong one, always looking out for him, always fighting for him. And Steve’s reassured that maybe it isn’t so bad, maybe nothing’s really changed after all.

“Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?” Steve asks offhandedly, shooting Buck a grin. They both know that Bucky’s going to be on his team, no matter what.

Bucky’s answer jars him, shakes him down to his very core. “Hell no.”

 _What?_ _Buck, you can’t, you can’t leave me now! I have nothing! Ma’s dead, everyone’s dead, you’re all I have left!_

“That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight,” Bucky continues, and Steve feels the knot of tension in his chest unravel slightly, waiting desperately for him to finish the sentence. “I’m following _him_.”

And that shocks Steve, because Steve’s never consciously thought of Captain America and Steve Rogers as different people, but now that Buck says it, he knows that it’s true. It’s what he’s thought all along, but never given voice to. And Bucky couldn’t be more right.

Because Captain America is a big, brave, fearless superhero, a man of fiction and fairytale. But Steve Rogers is that little sickly kid from Brooklyn, that stubborn little ass that never backed down, that took care of the little kids when their parents went to work. That little kid who cried at Bucky’s bedside when his Ma passed, that little boy who sat in bed, covers drawn up to his waist as he let his imagination run wild and he read and doodled on little scraps of paper.

Steve Rogers, who is nothing without Bucky Barnes.

When Steve gathers his team of best men, it is the few who led the assault on the HYDRA base after he’d rescued them, the few crazy, insane ones that hijacked a HYDRA tank and stole HYDRA weapons of mass destruction and opened fire on the enemy.

Without knowing what they were doing or how to actually operate the weapons.

But Steve values that, can see past what others recognise as insanity to the true ingenuity and adaptability behind that.

Because Steve Rogers himself is exactly like that.

Insane, ingenious, crazy, resilient. Creative no matter the odds.

Captain America and the Howling Commandos.

Captain Rogers and his boys.

Steve Rogers. Bucky Barnes. Dum Dum Dugan. Gabe Jones. Jim Morita. James Falsworth. Jacques Dernier.

His team. His men. His friends.

*

_The Winter Soldier, the woman calls him._

_It is said in Russian, a breathy, almost reverent tone before something snaps in the woman’s eyes and she pulls out a pair of Glock 26s, dual wielding them as she shields the target with her body._

_“He’s under my protection,” she snarls, but there is weakness in her eyes. He sees it._

_Weakness and sentiment._

_“Don’t you remember me?” The woman asks, and although there is emotion in her gaze, her aim is true, her arms unwavering as she holds up the two handguns._

_Her red hair is whipping back and forth in the wind, a splash of colour as bright as the star on his arm, as the blood on his hands._

_The Winter Soldier does not hesitate._

_He stares the woman in the eye, green eyes glimmering under his scrutiny. Then he shoots her in the waist, straight through the skin, where he knows there are no bones or major organs that could impede his path._

_The woman cries out, a sharp, short scream of shock and pain before her lips clamp tight, knuckles white around the grips of her guns._

_Determination flashes in those green eyes, and now there is no weakness._

_She aims, fires, straight between his eyes, but the Asset lifts his arm and the bullet ricochets off the metal appendage, dropping to the ground with a dull clink._

_The Asset stalks off, path unimpeded when the woman realises the man behind her is dead._

_The last thing the Asset hears is the woman’s voice, so, so familiar, cursing liberally in Russian as he returns to base._

*

“Remember that time when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?” Bucky asks, both of them standing on a snow-covered cliff overlooking a mountain range, railway tracks circling the mountain slope.

They’re perched right on the edge of the cliff, staring at the cable that they’d be ziplining down.

Steve cocks an eyebrow, turning to Buck with a wry grin. "Yeah, and I threw up."

Bucky continues staring at the zip cable apprehensively. "This isn't payback, is it?"

Steve pushes down the laugh that bubbles up in his chest. "Now, why would I do that?"

Bucky scowls at him.

That's when Gabe looks up from the radio transmitter/decoder that they're using to hack into HYDRA lines, face a blank slate. "You were right, Doctor Zola is on the train. HYDRA dispatcher gave him permission to open the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad."

Falsworth squints into his binoculars, brows pulling together. "Let's get going, ‘cause they're moving like the devil.”

Steve grabs onto the zipline pulley, hands gripping the handlebars tight. He’s thankful for his gloves, because at least they conceal how white is knuckles have become, the skin stretched taut over the bone and all but transparent.

His uniform, fitting as it is, at least has some give around the arm, because he knows his biceps have tightened up, bunched up and bulging with the grip he has on the handles. It wouldn’t do for his men to see how much he fears falling.

If Captain America can’t do a zipline, how’re the other soldiers going to convince themselves to?

But Steve -Steve, not Cap-, knows instinctively what a fall from this height will do to a man. Death is the least of what would happen.

He steels himself, trying in vain to loosen his grip slightly -who knows what his full strength might do to the bars? He’s already proven that he can bend metal with his bare hands.

“We’ve only got about a ten second window,” Steve instructs, trying and failing to keep the tension from creeping into his tone. “You miss that window, we’re bugs on a windshield.”

Falsworth grips on tighter to his binoculars, offering a wan grin. “Mind the gap.”

Steve clenches his fists around the handles yet again, before forcibly loosening his grip.

“Gotta get moving, bugs,” Dum Dum says, grinning at the reference to Steve’s ‘bugs on a windshield’ comment.

Jacques is the one who waves Steve off, with a sharp, “ _Maintenant!”_

The French is easily distinguishable -while all the Commandos speak French, to a certain extent, Jacques is the only one to do so with a genuine accent, surpassing even Gabe, who's pretty much the linguist of the group.

Steve leaps off snow-covered cliffside, his heart in his throat and pulse beating way too fast, but he has all of half a second to think ‘oh God’ before the biting wind and snow is stinging his exposed cheeks, and he’s thanking God that he has a helmet that covers majority of his face.

The cold is nothing compared to the adrenaline that’s racing through his veins, though, the thrill that’s burning in his chest, the scream of excitement that’s building in his throat.

 _It’s a good day,_ Steve thinks. _One of those days when falling is fun._

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll take that sentence back later.

Because he’ll never see the fun in falling ever again.

*

_"Steve?"_

_He is cold. He is cold, and numb, and everything around him is black and white and gray. He can't feel his body, but his left side feels strangely light, throwing off his centre of gravity._

_"Steve?" He calls again, voice echoing out into darkness, cold hedging him in on all sides, starlight broken into shining fragments, sparking off powdery snow._

_Snow..._

_It's so_ cold, _so dark, he can't see_ anything _. His throat is closing up, his eyes tearing even as he tries to move his arm to wipe the tears away._

_His arm isn't moving._

_It's numb and unfeeling and not there._

_It's_ not...there?

_How-_

_Then there's rustling coming from somewhere to his left, the sound of harsh voices and muffled shouts._

_"He-" Bucky starts, before abruptly cutting himself off and praying that the men have not heard him._

_Who's to say that they're not HYDRA, not enemies who would kill him without a second thought._

_So he shuts his mouth, shuts his eyes and prays to God that they don't find him._

_*_

No. No.

It can't be, it can't, it- no.

No, please, God, no, let this be a bad dream, a nightmare, it can't be reality, it just can't be happening.

Bucky's _not dead_!

It can't.

God.

He sits at the broken down bar, on one of the only chairs that's still standing, wishing to God that he was back in that old, ramshackle and rundown apartment in Brooklyn, huddled on the couch and buried under every single scrap of cloth they can find while Bucky tries to force-feed him the broth they’d made by boiling bits of vegetables and chicken bones, and Steve tries to drink it so Buck won’t worry, and then he tries not to throw it all up because his stomach can’t take the oily, vaguely chicken-tasting water.

He remembers the freezing winter nights and the burning summer days, the constant feeling of his chest tightening and throat closing up, unable to breathe. He remembers Buck kneeling beside him and getting him to breathe slowly.  He remembers the back-alley fights, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth and the indignance when Bucky comes in behind him, pulling the other guy away and more often than not punching him out.

He can’t-

No.

No!

Why? Why did he have to ask Buck to be on the Commandos? Why’d he have to be so stubborn? Why?

And now, now he-he’s _gone._

Steve grabs for the bottle in front of him, the dusty glass that he’d taken out untouched, throat moving as he gulps down the alcohol, savouring the burn as it goes down, the sting of alcohol down his throat that’s so unlike the sting of unshed tears in his eyes, the clench of his heart.

He puts down the bottle and sees movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see more clearly.

It’s Peggy.

“Doctor Erskine said that the serum wouldn’t just affect my muscles. It would affect my cells. Create a protective system of… regeneration and healing,” Steve says then, non sequitur, bitter, picking up the bottle and opting to use the glass in front of him. “Which means I can’t get drunk. Did you know that?”

Peggy thins her red painted lips and bends to right a toppled chair on the debris-strewn floor, taking a seat.

“Your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person,” she answers. “He thought it could be one of the side effects.”

Peggy’s expression sobers then. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Steve scowls at the half-empty bottle in his hands. “Did you read the report?”

“Yes.”

Steve scoffs, bitter laugh catching in his throat. “Well, then you know that’s not true.”

“You did everything you could,” Peggy says, ignoring his previous statement.

“Did you believe in your friend?” She asks then, leaning forward, eyes earnest, and before Steve can so much as be offended that she would even _suggest_ such a thing, Peggy continues, speaking over his strangled noise of protest. “Did you respect him?”

She waits then, barely a second, for his nod of confirmation.

“Then stop blaming yourself-”

 _Bu-But he’s_ dead! _Dead because of me, because I couldn’t save him. It_ was _my fault!_

“-and allow Barnes the dignity of his choice. He must have damn well thought you were worth it.”Steve receives word that Zola’s cracked, and then he’s carting himself and the Commandos -what’s left of them, anyway- across Europe to the Alps, where HYDRA’s last standing base is located. He fights his way through the guards, HYDRA goons falling left, right and center under the wrath of him and his shield.

Then they corner him, and he’s face-to-face with Johann Schmidt.

“Arrogance may not be a uniquely American trait,” the other man scoffs. “But I must say you do it better than anyone.”

Steve ignores the words, anger burning in his gut and even his fear -now turned hatred- of falling long forgotten, only the pain of losing Bucky and the burning anger at this man, this self-proclaimed god.

Schmidt continues, ignorant, or uncaring of his opponent’s fury. “But there are limits, to what even you can do, Captain. Or did Erskine tell you otherwise?”

“He told me you were insane,” Steve replies through gritted teeth. _And I am inclined to believe him._

“Ah. He resented my genius, and tried to deny me what was rightfully mine. But he gave you everything. So. What made you so special?”

“Nothing. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

Steve runs into the hangar only to see the Valkyrie taking off, and the entire room has become a battleground, the assault team against the HYDRA goons, orange gunfire against glowing blue power. He takes off at top speed, but he can already tell that he’s not going to make it on time. He slows, just as the sound of an engine behind him comes roaring into hearing distance, and then a car is screeching to a halt beside him and Colonel Phillips is barking at him to get in.

He clambers into the front seat, Peggy in the back and the Colonel behind the wheel, and the race is on.

In front of them, the hangar doors open, and Phillips jabs his thumb into a button on the console, and jets fire to life on the sides of the car, all three of their heads whipped back by the sudden acceleration.

Then they’re below the Valkyrie, and Steve is climbing to his feet, shield hoisted on his arm, yelling for Colonel Phillips to keep the car steady.

He’s about to jump for it, try to get onto the plane while the chance is still there, but then Peggy’s crying for him to wait, and then she’s grabbing him by the arm and pulling him down into a kiss. She pulls away all too soon, and there’s a fond, proud look in her eyes.

“Go get him,” she says, accent thick in her words, and he smiles, a real, genuine smile, the first one since Bucky’d died.

He can still taste her ruby red lipstick on his lips, the soft, clean taste of her.

He falters, almost a moment too late, and then the Colonel jars him out of the moment with a sharp, “I’m not kissing you,” and Steve slings the shield across his bag and makes the jump, heart racing at the momentary weightlessness, but then he’s grabbing onto the wheel and he’s stable again, and it’d be so easy to fall from here, fall down into the blinding whiteness of the snow below him, fall just like Bucky did.

He looks back, pushing the thoughts away from the forefront of his mind, and he sees the tiny figure of Peggy on the runway, standing in the backseat of the car, dark locks flying in the wind.

Then the wheel withdraws into the interior of the plane, and there’s only the artificial lights of the cargo hold. He sees the individual bomber planes labelled with the names of all the different cities in the US, and hears the sound of HYDRA goons storming down the metal catwalks.

He hides in the rafters, swinging down to take them out one by one, and then he pushes an agent out the space  left by the bomber plane when he’d released it from its berth, and then he himself is being pushed onto a plane that is occupied by another agent, wrestling with yet another HYDRA goon on top of the smooth metal, far, far above the ground, and he knows, he knows that it’d be so easy to fall now, to slide of the smooth, rounded metal of the bomber, especially with the way the agent in the cockpit is desperately trying to fling him off, spinning and barrel rolling, diving and climbing. The other agent grappling with him isn’t as strong, and doesn’t have as secure of a grip, and when the bomber goes into a vertical ascent, he’s flung backwards, off the plane and shredded by the propeller.

Steve flinches at the splatter of red and feels his stomach lurch, already queasy from the height, and made ever worse by the gory sight.

He smashes his way into the cockpit and pulls the eject lever before the HYDRA agent can react, sliding into the pilot’s seat and flying back up to the Valkyrie, dodging Skull’s attacks as he flies past the front windows and crashes back into the jet through an opening too small for the bomber.

He grabs his shield from where it’d fallen during his earlier fight onboard and makes his way to the front of the plane where Schmidt is. He pushes open the door soundlessly and creeps in stealthily -well, as stealthily as a man in an American flag suit and cowl with a red, white and blue shield with a star in his hands can.

Schmidt isn’t anywhere to be seen, and as Steve slowly makes his way forward towards the pilot’s seat, he gets the distinct feeling that Schmidt isn’t in the seat like he’s supposed to be.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of one Schmidt’s weapons powering up from behind him, and Steve immediately spins, getting his shield up just in time to block the pulse of blue energy that come hurtling his way.

From behind the weapon, Schmidt grins, deranged, wild. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope!” Steve shoots back, shield still up.

Schmidt fires again, a continuous stream of energy this time, and Steve holds up his shield, pushing back against it, making his way closer to Schmidt.

The moment the stream dies off, Steve yanks his shield up, knocking the weapon out of Schmidt’s hands. His next hit is straight across Schmidt’s jutting cheekbone, forcing his head back before Schmidt recovers and socks him right across the face, and Steve can feel the straps of his helmet digging into his cheek as the hit lands and knock him sideways. The HYDRA leader takes the chance to grab Steve and throw him to the ground, the soldier landing with a thud against the metal floor. A harsh kick to the stomach winds Steve, and he gasps for breath, feeling the air rush out of his lungs at the hit.

He gets to his knees unsteadily, grabbing Schmidt’s incoming leg and pushing him back, using his momentum to pulls himself up and pin the Skull to the railing behind him, only for the other man to throw another punch, this one twice as hard as the previous and enough to send him flying backwards, and even enough to send the Skull to the ground with the force behind it. Steve gets up first and grabs for the closest object -a metal crate lying on the floor beside him- and smashes it into the side of Schmidt’s head when the man is in the middle of clambering to his feet, both of them falling back to the ground, Steve on all fours, towering above Schmidt. He grabs the HYDRA leader under one arm and across his throat in a makeshift chokehold, the other man prying ineffectually at his hands. The Skull sends them both reeling into the side of the machine that houses the Cube, the hit forcing Steve to release Skull. He grabs his shield from where it’s fallen and brings it down on the other man’s head, but Schmidt rips the vibranium from his hands and returns the hit, and Steve falls back against the machine holding the Cube, his ears ringing from the force of the attack. He registers Schmidt leering at him, face centimeters away, and brings his head up in a vicious headbutt, his hands flying up to push the man backwards and off of him. He throws Schmidt against the plane controls and into the pilot’s seat, sparks flying as the plane’s controls malfunction and sends them plummeting into a steep nosedive. The force of the sudden acceleration throws both him and Schmidt against the metal rafters, still trading blows even as the plane dives out of control. Schmidt kicks Steve off him and clambers to the console, flicking on the autopilot and levelling off the plane before pulling out his Cube-powered handgun.

“You could have the power of the Gods!” He yells as he fires off a shot that hits far too close to Steve for comfort.

Steve runs for cover as the madman fires off more shots.

“But you wear a flag across your chest and think you fight a battle of nations!” The man continues, not ceasing fire even as Steve ducks behind a pillar. He ducks as a shot flies over his head, and the Skull laugh, maniacal. “I have seen the future, Captain! There are no flags!”

“Not my future!” Steve shouts back, and then darts out from behind the pillar, rolling to avoid the next shot and gets to his feet, putting up his shield just in time to deflect another blast. He throws his shield, putting all the strength of the serum behind it and the vibranium disc collides with Schmidt, and he goes flying back into the Cube machine, crashing straight into the compartment that holds the Cube.

Blue energy sparks over the metal and the Cube rises up on a platform at the top of the machine, within touching distance for Schmidt.

“What have you done?” Schmidt rasps, horrified as he grabs the Cube in one hand. “No…”

In his palm, the Cube release multiple tendrils of energy, it’s glow brightening as a breach opens up above them, the luminescence of millions of stars set in a background of swirling browns and pinks and navy blue. The Cube sends up a stream of iridescent energy, burning up in Schmidt’s hand, the HYDRA leader yelling as the energy engulfs him, and then the light flares so brightly that Steve has to shield his eyes, and when he looks back, Schmidt is gone, and the Cube falls to the floor, burning through the metal grate in seconds, taking only slightly longer to burn through the thicker metal hull of the Valkyrie.

Steve grabs his shield from the floor and places it within reach as he gets into the pilot’s seat and tries to alter its course. He looks down at the autopilot display, and the console is programmed straight for New York, and from the looks of it, they’re not too far away.

And he knows what he has to do.

*

_Bucky thinks that joining Steve on the Howling Commandos might well be the best decision he’s ever made -well, other than deciding to help that scrawny little blond haired kid getting beaten up in the alley by two guys three times his size._

_They’re on the train on the mountainside, and they’re fighting for their lives against HYDRA, but Steve is by his side, and he’s got Steve back._

_He’s satisfied._

_Then the HYDRA soldier decked out in full body armour and insanely big guns barges through the doorway into the train carriage, and Steve is pushing him behind him and putting up his shield, the impact of the double blasts throwing Steve against the wall of the carriage and the shield the other way. Bucky scoops up the shield and aims his rifle, finger on the trigger._

_The HYDRA soldier shoots again, and the blast hits the shield, pushing Bucky back and out of the gaping hole in the side of the train, knocking the shield from his hands._

_The air is frigid outside, wind rushing past and his hands are numb, hanging onto the railing in the side of the train, but he_ can’t let go! _If he does, he falls. And if he falls, he dies._

_He can’t die. Who would protect Stevie otherwise?_

_From inside the train, he hears the clang of Steve’s shield hitting something, and then his frantic cry of “Bucky!”_

*

“This thing’s moving too fast and it’s heading for New York.”

*

_Steve clambers out of the train, sticking close to the sides and trying to reach him._

*

“I gotta put her in the water.”

*

_“Hang on!” Steve yells, inching his way towards him and stretching out a gloved hand. “Grab my hand!”_

*

“Please, don’t do this. We have time, we can work it out.”

*

_Bucky reaches out, but then there’s the creak of metal fatigue, and one end of the railing breaks off under his weight, dropping him down and out of reach of Steve’s hand._

*

“I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”

*

_“No!”_

*

“Eight o’clock, on the dot. Don’t you dare be late.”

*

_The metal bar gives completely._

*

“We’ll have the band play something slow. I’d hate to step on your-”

*

_He’s plummeting, falling through freezing air, arm still outstretched and a scream of terror ripped from his throat._

*

Peggy’s voice cuts out, and then there’s just static and him, the ice and water inches from the nose of the plane. It’s cold.

*

_“At least Stevie’s safe.” It’s cold._

*

The plane crashes.

_He closes his eyes._

*

Ice and darkness, and that’s all they know.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me a coffee! [My Ko-fi!](https://ko-fi.com/G2G7E646)  
> 


End file.
